A Frog Christmas Carol
by A Road Unturning
Summary: Edgar Frog gets the Dickens treatment. I do not own The Lost Boys.


_This is seriousl_y _old. I found it tucked away, and you know (despite drowning in multichapter fics) I have drive to finish it. I know its May...but hey? Why not combat the warm weather with an Edgar Frog ghost story in four/five parts?_

_I'm halfway in bed now. :p_

_._

_._

**Edgar's Christmas Carol**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

24th December.

Edgar glared at the offending calendar in the hopes the damn thing would shrivel under his scrutiny, or merely combust into flames. It did neither. It just stared back at him with equal intent. Edgar pursed his lips in irritation. After waking up at three in the afternoon, recovering from a nasty midnight raid, the accursed reminder of what time of year it was hardly helped with his mood.

The problem with Christmas was because it was full of happy people. And Edgar hated happy people. At least at the moment he did.

Running a hand through his unwashed hair, Edgar rose to his feet. What he needed now was a cold, bracing shower, to wash away all the blood and brain fluid and god knows what else had soaked into his skin the previous night. He'd ambled straight into bed after the stake out; exhausted and aching. He was still young, hell yes, he wasn't going to slow down anytime soon, but…he was beginning to feel the strain. And it wasn't the physical strain, ether.

As he crossed to the bathroom, three sets of eyes stopped him in his tracks.

It was the photo he'd left out earlier; fifteen year old Sam, Alan, and himself, staring out from within the colorful entrapment of the old comic shop. Sam was grinning cheekily; typical, metrosexual mallrat he once was. Edgar's own expression was one of stone, yet there was a telling quirk in his lips, and Alan….

Edgar frowned at their fifteen year old selves; clapped the picture down hard on its back.

It had been a long night.

The phone rang.

Growling in displeasure, Edgar fumbled for the Nokia hidden within his _**Missing **_posters. An abandoned glass of cold frog juice was struck by his clumsy hands; it toppled, soaking his trousers right through. Wonderful. Another liquid addition to his personal collection.

"Edgar?"

The tinny monotone on the other end of the line made him freeze.

"Laddie?"

"Yeah," He sounded timid, as usual. Laddie was always pretty unassuming. There came the sound of shuffling down the phone, before he clicked back on. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Yes," Edgar responded blankly. "It's Monday."

"Yeah, smartass," quipped Laddie. "It's Christmas Eve."

Edgar pressed his lips in a straight, angry line.

"So?"

"I'm going to spit it out," Laddie's voice was stronger now, showing off the same intent as that damn calendar, and Edgar waited. Irritability.

"Do you want to come over tomorrow?"

The tentative tenderness in the offer clenched his gut. Edgar paused, his eyes slowly shifting from each Missing poster to the next. Silence drew between the lines.

"Edgar…?"

"Laddie," Edgar stonily replied. "I appreciate the sentiment. But I can't."

Laddie cut off his own retort. He knew better to push things with Edgar Frog, but he couldn't help the tiniest quake in his voice.

"I would have liked you there, Edgar." As if sensing Edgar's unease, he finished up quickly. "Star and I were just going to have a drink. I'll see ya later then."

"Okay," mumbled Edgar, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. Pained, he wiped his brow with his free hand.

"What are you doing tomorrow, then?"

"Good night, Laddie."

Laddie quieted, hurt by Edgar's moodiness. Not that he wasn't used to it, but it was the festive time of year, but Edgar just seemed stuck in the same old rut.

"Okay, Edgar," the tone was sad, but not lacking in affection; a feat which made Edgar wince. Life was better when he didn't have feelings.

"Merry Christmas."

The line went dead.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The afternoon plodded on. Edgar cleaned himself up, pulling on an old t-shirt and ripped khaki trousers, and proceeded to lock away all unnecessary vampires killing apparatus. It was freezing outside, unnaturally so for grey Luna Bay, and chilling winds prickled the hairs on his skin. Growling, he stormed through it all anyway; the wily old heater in his trailer would have to do. By four, it was dark outside, another reason why Edgar Frog hated the winter. Vampires crawled through darkness, and it wasn't to sing Christmas Carols, ether. Finally, at around eight, he finished work; pulled on an old fleece, and switched on the television. He flicked through the customary seasonal crap before he found an old Western. Deforrest Kelley planted six bullets in a bad guy's head. Partially entertained, Edgar observed the classic with dulled eyes. Tiredness nipped at his senses; he rubbed his eyes with a calloused fist. Maybe he should hit the sack…

The television screen flickered, convulsed; died.

Edgar blinked away sleep, squinted at the old thing in confusion. Had it finally decided to go, after all these years? Fucking no good Samsung…

Suddenly, a white light ripped through the screen; the volume had been turned up to such an extent the small trailer rocked with the racket. Alistair Sim flashed on the screen, cowering below a melodramatic incarnation of Jacob Marley.

Edgar almost crashed head first from his loveseat in shock. What the fuck…?

"Shit," he hissed, pressing the red button on the remote. The scene shuddered, before evaporating into nothingness. The trailer was plunged into darkness. The small, metallic whirring of the old heater coughed and spluttered, before dying along with the television. A power cut. On Christmas Eve, with below freezing temperatures.

Some guys have all the luck.

Edgar wetted his lips with a hot tongue, eyes alert with irritation, alongside a faint show of nervousness. Darkness was dangerous. And so was the cold, to be boot. Already, he could feel himself trembling from the loss of warmth. Damn…

He fumbled in his drawer for a flashlight. The batteries were nearly gone, but the weak shine was better than nothing. The fuse box was outside, buried beneath wooden stakes and rotting debris, and he didn't have the strength or willpower to go through it all.

The small light crossed the trailer; before it landed on the small picture of the summer of 1987. Edgar's brow furrowed; the picture was propped up again, and seemed to be illuminated from within.

Soft, twinkling carousal music leaked from the shadows.

The figure in the center of the trio flashed a grin at Alan next to him; before staring _right out at Edgar. _

Edgar's mouth fell open, his lips loose from shock. The figure still observed his old friend, before he grinned; and winked.

Had he taken a knock to the head too many? Had he…?

When Edgar looked again, the picture was face down; the trailer was empty and dark, as before.

Edgar was aware his breathing had stopped. He drew in a deep breath, and closed his eyes. His senses snapped once again in clear, defined clarity. Sighing deeply, he stared across the room. December wind gently creaked the old trailer.

He sighed, hitting his head back against the seat of his battered old sofa.

Outside, the dangling line of garlic began to swing, as if caught in a breeze. The crosses, hooked onto wooden wind chimes, steadily began to knock each until the metallic clank of metal began to swell and rise; like a growing crescendo of screaming bells.


End file.
